


Eye of the Storm

by Constant_Variations



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: 2nd POV, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Minor Violence, Post-Canon, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Constant_Variations/pseuds/Constant_Variations
Summary: A group of drunk humans have trapped a monster in a dead-end alley. You're no hero, but that's not going to stop you from helping.





	Eye of the Storm

There’s an ache of fatigue behind a weary smile. The cashier’s quiet anxiety bleeds into the air as dark purple paws slowly and methodically swipes your meager selection of items, double checking the screen after every beep it makes with teary golden eyes. You take note of her empty name tag, then of the manager lounging in the office, its door cracked open only a bit.

“Y’know, I used to have a job like this,” you say, pausing when she glances up from the box of noodles she was scanning. “It was always im-pasta-ble to bear.”

She blinks a few times before giving an ugly snort as she picks up the cat food. Deadpan, you continue. “Cat-ta say, it was paw-sitively my least favorite job.” Steady claws make quick work of more noodles and sauce. “Thankfully, I kept an eye out for pasta-bilities and wasn’t afraid-o to make some mistakes.”

She’s on the brink of cracking up by the time you shut your mouth. You wait patiently, card in hand and hovering by the chip machine. Her giggling gradually halts when she realizes all the items are scanned, your payment in process.

“Laughter really is, like, the best medicine, isn’t it?” She looks at you gratefully as she bags up your purchases. You help, careful not to brush your leather-clad hands against hers.

“Might be best ‘cause it’s free,” you shrug, earning another snort. You pull out a different card, indicating for her to take it. She eyes it curiously, plucking it from your fingertips.

“What’s this?”

“A pasta-bility, if you want it. Proper wages, flexible hours, identity protection, whatever you need. Just apply on the website and we’ll get you set up in no time.”

Yellow eyes dart between her vacant name tag, your face, and the card in her claws. Her tears renew, but with a joyous sparkle not seen before. “Thank you,” she whispers, drawing the small paper to her chest like it was something precious. The genuine awe leveled at you makes you squirm.

“Hope to see you soon, kiddo,” you say, grabbing your bags and heading for the door.

“Catty,” her toothy maw extends into a soft grin. “I’m Catty.”

You give her a two-finger salute, “Pasta la vista, Catty.” Her brightened aura follows you out the store.

The sun is low in the sky as you exit the Small-Mart, and you stop to admire the darkening hues over the city’s horizon. Your two bags swing gently at your side. It’s far too soon for night to fall, in your humble opinion, but Mother Nature seems to have a differing view. You pull your trench coat tighter against the autumn breeze and start heading home, wondering what to make for dinner.

Malicious laughter distantly mingles with the thrum of a settling city, growing louder the further you walk. The individual words blend in a rambunctious cacophony, but the ill intent threaded through makes you pick up the pace. You trace the source to a dark alleyway, your phone out and recording. A group of young adults, most of whom are holding various liquor bottles and playfully shoving each other, crowd around a tall, bald figure you can’t really see. All the men are wearing local college jackets.

“Why don’tcha jus’ go back to where you came from, freak,” the large guy in a slanted red baseball hat slurs. He puffs his chest and gestures wildly to vague spots behind the figure. “Y’know no one wants you here.”

“You don’t belong here!” another chimes in.

“You’re already six feet under!” yet another shrieks. The group laughs uproariously.

“HUMANS,” the unseen person (maybe a man?) cries, “I DO NOT WANT ANY TROUBLE. PLEASE ALLOW ME TO PASS.” You wince at piercing voice, wondering what the hell he’s doing at that volume, but pass it off as a symptom of fear.

The group flinches at the noise, stumbling back while covering their ears. The ensuing gap left you a clear view at the incredible amount of grocery bags being carried by a… skeleton? You blink.

That’s… new.

The humans recover, and your view is blocked once more.

“We don’ want any trouble either, _pal,_ ” the big guy sneers. He turns and gives a shit-eating grin at his buddies, who return it with equally shitty fervor. “We’re just messin’ around. It’s what we _humans_ do, we jus’ get rough sometimes.” He takes a menacing step forward. Having seen enough, you plant yourself at the mouth of the alleyway.

“Hey!” Satisfaction swells in your chest at their guilty jumps, all spinning to face your relaxed form with wide, fearful eyes. “Monster’s trying to giving y’all a free pass. I suggest you take it.” You look each and every one of them in the eye as you speak. They shiver, some shrinking under your intense gaze.

“The fuck _you_ care for? Piss off ‘fore we kick your ass,” the leader snarks, taking another swig from his bottle. The others spit at you from where they stood.

“Yeah, monster fucker!”

“Monster slut!”

“Freak lover!”

“Keep that up and the cops will find this to be a very open-shut case of underage drinking, public harassment, and criminal threats,” you say, holding up your phone lazily. Casually rocking on your feet, you tap your cheek faux-thoughtfully. “Not to mention that, since monsters are a protected class of citizens, this counts as a hate crime. That _alone_ gets several months in prison on misdemeanor charges. Dunno how colleges feel about having convicted felons on campus, but, if you wanna find out, then please….” Your words twist, filling the space with dark, foreboding intent that has them shuffling anxiously, shooting each other quick, scared looks. “ **Be. My. Guest** **.** ”

A moment of silence. You’re hopeful that they’ll listen.

“Fuck you, you bitch!” The girl in a loose blouse stomps her foot at you. Her pretty face is contorted by a snarl of disdain. “These things don’t belong near normal people!”

Or not.

“PLEASE, TAKE THE OTHER HUMAN’S ADVICE,” the skeleton begs, causing another unison wince. “I DO NOT WANT-”

“Can it, Fuck-face!” the leader snaps. There’s an audible clack as the skeleton’s mandibles clamp shut, skull somehow looking affronted. You catch his socket and hold a finger to your lips. His brows furrow unhappily, but you can’t afford to be distracted.

The leader steps forward, adjusting his hat with such smug confidence you have to resist punching his face then and there. Crowding the alley opening, the rest of the group cheer him on with variations of “Fuck ‘em up, Travis!” The skeleton peers over their heads, trapped behind their wall of bodies.

“You really want to fight me, kid?” you ask in exasperation. Already knowing the answer, you settle your still-recording phone against your groceries, aiming it at the sidewalk-turned-battleground.

Sneakers pound against the cement. Twisting, you shoot up and latch onto his arm. Spinning around, you throw Travis back to his starting point. He lands, rolling over the pavement with pained grunts. The cheering stops.

You hook your hands in your pockets, approaching his panting body without getting too near. Even so, you smell the whiskey on his breath. “You’re not gonna win this, kid. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off, huh? Whaddya say?”

Travis stumbles to his feet, glaring at you with pure hatred. The others resume shouting encouragement, and you can’t help the small sigh that escapes.

Travis attacks with a furious yell. Not bothering to remove your hands, you twirl around his wild blow. He turns on his heel, rushes full force. You sidestep. Hooking a foot around his ankle, you send him tumbling to the ground. He skids with a sickening sound.

A lone car illuminates the scene, the headlights blinding for a moment. A soft _snick_ is barely audible over sinister laughter from within the whiteness.

Ice floods your veins.

You drop down on one knee. The knife’s silver gleam swings over your head. You launch forward. The blade strikes the ground behind you with a screeching spark. Bracing your hands, you ram your elbow into the small of Travis’s back. He howls.

You grab his outstretched hand and wrench it behind him, the knife caught between your bodies. Your other arm slithers around his neck, forcing him to bend backwards to accommodate your shorter stature. The muscles twitch under your iron grip.

“Drop the knife. _Now,_ ” you snap as his friends look on in frozen horror. A beat, then two. You twist his arm a little more.

The knife clinks innocently to the ground.

“Good boy,” you purr coldly. The battering hurricane of his intoxicated emotions makes you grit your teeth. “Now, when I let go, you are to go _straight home._ No bars, no nightclubs, absolutely _nothing_ , you understand me?” At his silence, you flex the arm around his throat, repeating your question with vehemence. He reluctantly nods, and you shove him away.

“You’re all a disgrace to humanity.” Their looks of vile quickly shrink to primal fear at your imposing stare. Gathering all your intent on your tongue, you weave your will into your thunderous growl. “Now, **g** **et Away** **_Fr_** _ **om** **H I M.**_ ”

The group staggers away as fast as possible, thinly veiling their loathing and shame, none of which is directed at themselves. You watch them with hawk’s eyes as they limp halfway down the street before heading to the knife lying not too far from your groceries and phone. You save the video and pocket the device.

“WOWIE, THAT WAS EXCITING!” The sudden exclamation instinctively has you in a defensive crouch. At seeing the skeleton emerge from the alleyway, you relax and offer a friendly nod.

“That’s one way to describe it, I suppose.” Ignoring him for a moment, you pick up Travis’s knife, manipulating your glove over your fingers as to not dirty it with your prints, and drop it in your bag. Physical evidence never hurt, after all. You secure the handles of both bags around your wrist, then give the monster your full attention.

He is… definitely a skeleton. Nothing like any of the fuzzy, non-threatening monsters you’ve encountered before. Several lower ribs hang free under a black crop top with rock-and-roll gestured skeletal hands on the breasts. His iliac crests are adorned by a red checkered miniskirt over top charcoal leggings. A well-worn, well-loved red scarf flutters in the breeze.

You force yourself to look him in the face, almost getting lost in his void-like eye sockets as you ask if he’s okay.

“OF COURSE, HUMAN!” You are definitely going to need hearing aids before night’s end. “THE GREAT PAPYRUS WILL NOT BE FRIGHTENED BY SOMETHING SO SILLY, BUT I THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONCERN, AS WELL AS FOR YOUR HELP WITH THE OTHER HUMANS. I AM GLAD NO ONE WAS HURT.”

“No problem. Papyrus, was it?” You almost smile at his enthusiastic affirmative. “Would you like some company on the way home, y’know, just in case?”

“I WOULD LOVE TO ACCOMPANY YOU TO MY HOME, HUMAN!” That’s… quite the twisting of words, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve got a job to do.

You offer to carry some of his groceries, since they cover almost the entirety of his forearms, but he adamantly declines, saying it was good training. Shrugging it off, you follow him down the street. A companionable silence falls between you two. After chewing on the words for several minutes, you speak plainly.

“Are you going to press charges against them?” At the quiet question, Papyrus begins to sweat. You’re fascinated, but stay silent, immediately assuming magic.

“WELL, NYEH HEH, THEY WERE VERY RUDE,” his grin falters slightly before recovering, “BUT THEY SEEM TO REGRET THEIR ACTIONS AFTER YOU BESTED THEIR FRIEND, SO THAT MEANS THEY’LL TRY TO BE BETTER NOW!”

You hum noncommittally. Monsters are, technically, a protected class, but, like all minorities, it was written word only. Social stigma was as against them, if not more, than any other. No matter how legitimate the concern, it was brushed off. You’ve comforted more than your fair share of monsters who’d tried to report a human only to be laughed out of the station or treated like a criminal themselves.

You glance at your charge. Papyrus’s cheekbones are relaxed in a natural grin, showing no strain from all the Small-Mart bags lining his arms. It’s a struggle to keep your eyes from drifting shut in the warmth of his presence, but your dark thoughts ward off any real sense of contentment.

You can’t believe, out of all the innocent monsters those bastards could’ve chosen, it had to be this guy. The _one_ guy who wouldn’t press charges against them, despite being well within his rights. Although, you can’t really blame him for not wanting to be in the spotlight. The target on his back is big enough as is, but this could be bigger than him. Bigger than those college brats.

This could service all of monster kind.

However, that is an idea for another day. Right now, you have a far more pressing question.

“So, what’s with all the grocery bags?” Seriously, who carries that many groceries on such a long walk?

“WELL, YOU SEE, HUMAN,” Papyrus beams at you, “I AM A MASTER CHEF AND A PUZZLE EXTRAORDINAIRE. MY BROTHER AND MY TINY HUMAN FRIEND HAVE BEEN ACTING ODD LATELY, SO OF COURSE I SET OUT TO CHEER THEM UP WITH MY WONDERFUL TALENTS. BUT WE WERE ALL OUT OF INGREDIENTS. THUS I HAD TO PURCHASE THEM!”

“Huh,” you start, resisting the instinct to visually assault his bags. What does a monster puzzle even look like? “That’s really sweet of you.”

“WHY, THANK YOU, HUMAN! IT IS ONLY NATURAL FOR ONE AS GREAT AS I TO LOOK OUT FOR MY FAMILY.”

Papyrus carries the conversation forward, talking mostly in loving annoyance of his brother and cheerful reverence for his human friend. You listen distantly, responding when appropriate, but most of your attention was on watching the darkness that was beginning to swallow the world around you.

It almost startles you when he takes a sharp turn onto the driveway of a uniform looking duplex, unique only by way of the wreath hanging on the door, despite Christmas being months out. A figure draws back the curtain, then disappears. The door bursts open. You drop into a stance, but Papyrus abandons his groceries and steps forward with open arms. Within moments, a shivering bundle is being cradled, the face hidden under a messy mop of brown hair. They’re short, barely reaching Papyrus’s hips. Despite their excessive trembling, they hold onto him with desperate strength.

You finally get a good look when they step back, gazing up at Papyrus with wet doe eyes. It’s a child, you’d estimate somewhere in the preteen years. They wipe their wet, chubby cheeks, dislodging the thick framed glasses on their nose, and bring their shaking hands together.

“Where have you been?” Fresh tears fall as they breath raggedly though their teeth. “We didn’t know where you were… and you didn’t answer your phone…. We thought something bad happened.”

Papyrus sinks to his knees, sorrow in his sockets. Gently holding the child close, he whispers apologies and soothing words you fight to not hear. In your attempt at privacy, your eyes are drawn to the grocery bags still laying next to you.

You gather them all together as quietly as you can, lining your arms the way Papyrus had done. Bringing your arms up to test lift the weight, and… oh no. You’ve made a grave mistake, but you’re in too deep to back out now. You plant your feet and _heave_ with all your might. The bags lift off the ground, your muscles already screaming against the considerable load. Ignoring it, you struggle to the house, panting through clenched teeth the whole way.

Stopping just inside the gigantic door, you drift towards the floor, sighing as the bags rest against lush blue carpet. The soft clinking of cans and jars grates inside your skull, but it’s a necessary trade-off for a break.

Now, where to put them? Your eyes flicker about, seeing a comfy-looking sofa on the left and a gorgeous cherry wood dining table on the right. Above the table is a painting of a lone femur floating in a mint green void. A quirk of your lips betrays your delight.

An ominous presence suddenly appears out of sight. Your amusement dies quickly.

“if you’re done admiring my bone, you can follow me to the kitchen,” a deep voice rumbles next to you. Turning slowly, you find yourself face-to-chest to another, more rotund skeleton. His thin, stretched grin raises all the hairs on your neck.

Nodding once, you pick up the bags once again. Even though you now dwarf him, his empty-socket glare makes you feel small, insignificant, powerless. Steeling yourself, you return it evenly until he rotates his slippers and walks to the doorway beyond the table. You follow at a polite distance, fighting your rabbit heart’s desire to run, leave, _flee._

His barely bridled rage and power envelope the kitchen, concentrating it within the smaller space. He has you pinned, vulnerable, weighed down by groceries you’re too considerate to drop for a quick escape. Sweat drips down the back of your neck.

“go ahead and leave them on the counter, pal.” His faux-friendly demeanor does nothing to assuage your anxiety. You set the bags up, one arm at a time. You aren’t offered help, and you sure as hell don’t ask for it.

“Do you need anything else?” Drawing upon years of practice and sheer stubbornness, you keep your voice steady as you level your gaze at the skeleton. His sockets are boring into the floor, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his blue zip-up hoodie as he leans heavily on the fridge. You mirror his pose against the counter, offhandedly inspecting the kitchen and waiting patiently for his response. It takes a while, but he stirs.

“what happened?” His undertone wavers slightly, but it’s enough for you to feel pity.

You keep it brief, telling him only the bare bones (ha) of the tale, starting with you hearing the shouting from afar. His face retains that carefully neutral smile, but his energy emotes for him, thrashing in the atmosphere as you speak. The air thickens when you vaguely mention Travis fighting you, the dread and panic rolling off him causing your throat to tighten, your breath to quicken. He manages to tone it down, nodding when he was ready. Your symptoms ease enough for you to continue.

“And so, here we are,” you conclude dumbly. Eloquence isn’t exactly your strong suit, but who cares.

It’s easier to breath now. The air has some lingering anger, but knowing it’s not directed at you makes you less nervous than before.

“why?” he whispers to the floor.

“Who knows, man? They’re just bags of dicks who don’t care for difference and don’t get consequences for showing off.” You shrug bitterly, trying to shake off your own experiences.

“no, no, i get _that_ ,” he says, irritated. “i’m askin’ why _you_ got involved. most humans would ignore it. some would join. so why stick your neck out for a monster?”

“Oh.” You awkwardly rub your jaw as you find the best words for your intentions. “Well… it wasn’t fair odds, being five against one. Even more so, since Papyrus wasn’t going to fight back.” His skull shot up so fast you wondered if he’d get whiplash. He stares at you with wide sockets, nickel-sized white lights trained on your face. How fascinating.

“what makes you say that?” Curiosity radiates from his bones. It’s almost endearing.

“I don’t mean to imply that he’s weak, if that’s what you’re worried about—he’s definitely one of the strongest monsters I’ve ever met. But A,” you start ticking off fingers, your bags crinkling with your movements, “he was attempting diplomacy rather than fighting his way out; B, after it all went down, he said he was glad no one got hurt; and C, he genuinely believes they’ll try to be better people now that I’ve ‘shown them the light’ or whatever.” You shake your head gently, eyes lost in thought. “That’s something only a really special kinda person can do.”

Listening to you, his grin becomes soft, less feral. His eyelights fade at the edges, emitting a gentle glow as they slip from your face. “yeah,” he chuckles dryly, “that sounds like paps.”

You can only stare at the round skeleton, his loving, almost nostalgic energy so vastly different from the whirlwind before. The aura of some older than their years hits you hard, almost taking your breath away. A space behind your ribs cries out, yearning for nothing more than to comfort, defend, protect this weary being. The urge is so strong, so big, you feel like your lungs are being pushed aside.

Fighting against those impulses, you dig into your jeans for your wallet. His lights focus on your movements, tense yet inquisitive. Grabbing the card, you hold it out to the skeleton, leaning from your space across the kitchen. His mitten covered fingers pluck the prize from yours, puzzlement written on his brow.

“I’m a member of an escort program, call it SEBS for short. We accompany those who don’t feel safe where they’re going,” you say, nodding at the card in his hand. It’s simply designed: an off white background with black text spelling out “Storm’s Eye Buddy System” next to a storm-gray eye. The iris is formed by a curved human hand and a curved monster paw. “We got a website and an app you can use, completely free. Most of our clients ain’t exactly well off, y’know? Thought you might be interested,” you finish, shrugging nonchalantly.

How a skull can look vaguely surprised, you’ll never know. You assume magic. His eyelights alternate between you and the card, energy calm but lively.

Papyrus strolls into the kitchen, sunshine lighting up the room as he enters. The child from before rides atop his shoulders, smiling adorably from their perch. Only then do you notice the ridiculous height of the ceiling. It’d probably take two of you to _maybe_ touch the ceiling. The image causes you to softly snort, earning an amused look from the kid.

“SANS, THERE YOU ARE!” Ah, so that’s his name. “I APOLOGIZE FOR SCARING YOU AND FRISK. I MERELY WANTED TO SURPRISE YOU WITH MY CULINARY AND PUZZLE EXPERTISE. I DID NOT MEAN TO WORRY YOU, AND FOR THAT I AM SORRY.”

“it’s okay, bro,” Sans says, hands in pockets again. “just pick up the phone next time, okay? no need to _rattle_ these old bones now.” Despite not seeing anything, you swear Papyrus rolls his eyes. Wait a minute. Did Sans just…?

“SANS, DO NOT ASSAULT THE NEW HUMAN WITH YOUR BAD PUNS!!” Yes, yes he did. Who knew skeletons made bone puns?

“HUMAN,” Papyrus cheers at you. “I INVITE YOU TO STAY FOR THANK-YOU SPAGHETTI, COOKED BY CHEF EXTRAORDINAIRE, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AS THANKS FOR YOUR HELP TODAY.” He beams, excitedly waiting your answer. As much as you’d like to relax and accept, you have a responsibility waiting at home.

“I’d love to, Papyrus, but I really need to be going.” Ah, the perfect response, one that expresses reluctance to leave but stresses the necessity. It’s served you well over the years.

“Please stay!” the kid (Frisk?) signs, using Papyrus’s chest for some of the motions. “You saved our friend’s life. We have to repay you somehow!” Their face is determined, but their words settle wrong in your stomach.

“I’m sure he would’ve been just fine without me,” you mutter, waving off the words. You’re no hero —no need to be regarded as one.

Sans and Frisk share a look too fast for you to analyze. It sends a shiver down your spine, but you don’t know why.

“Besides, I have someone waiting for me at home,” you throw out, hoping someone catches it. Papyrus gasps in glee.

“IN THAT CASE, HUMAN, I UNDERSTAND YOU MUST GO. ONE CAN NEVER MISS AN OPPORTUNITY TO CANOODLE WITH SOMEONE GREAT ENOUGH FOR YOU TO LEAVE WITHOUT TRYING MY SPAGHETTI!” Were those… tears in his sockets? You _need_ to know more about magic.

“Thanks for the invite. I might take it up next time.” You give him a small, honest smile. Despite all the crap you’ve been through tonight, seeing him safe and sound with those he loved was worth it. “I’ll see myself to the door.”

Frisk wriggled off Papyrus’s back, darting around to crush themselves against you, enveloping themselves within your coat. Immediately, you’re overtaken.

Swirling waves of gratitude and sorrow beat against you. Paranoia and optimism chase each other, running round and around and around inside your chest, faster and faster with every inhale, exhale you make. You’re drowning in the essence of someone old, _old_ , _o l d,_ ancient in wisdom and maturity. Deep, far, far deep in the depths you hear a calling, an echo of something dark and angry and oh, so very _hungry._

You claw your way back to reality, forcing yourself to relax as you awkwardly pat the kid’s head. Gently pushing them away, you slide out of the kitchen, bidding everyone a good night. Once out of sight, you furiously wipe off where the kid’s essence lingered. It hadn’t been skin-to-skin contact, thankfully, but even little touches were unnerving. You don’t allow such affections for a good reason.

Throwing open the door, you suck in the sweet night air. Stars are scattered haphazardly across the sky, a bright twinkle here and there. You marvel at the sight, preparing to step through the door when a deep rumble stops you.

“you gonna be safe walking home this late at night?” Sans is standing by the table you’re still very envious of, bright lights wavering over your silhouette. Your responding chuckle is full of dry mirth. Stepping backwards, you allow the wind to flare out your coat as you look him right in the eyes with a wicked grin on your face.

“Not even the stars could fell this knight.”

~O~

A half hour and several alleyway shortcuts later, you’re still giggling to yourself. Some of your neighbors had given strange looks as you passed, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The jingling of keys is shortly followed by floorboards creaking as you enter your humble studio apartment.

“Nebs, I’m home,” you call out, shuffling to the kitchen. Dropping your bags, there’s a clink of metal against laminate counter top. Fishing a ziploc bag from a drawer, you finagle the knife inside and write the date on it with a nearby sharpie.

That duty done, you spread your purchases over the counter. A warm presence weaves its way between your legs, pulling your eyes away from your newly acquired goods. A real smile blooms across your face as you pick Nebula up and nuzzle her soft gray fur. She purrs up a storm, a wonderful earthly sound that reverberates through your body, soothing the aching muscles and creaking bones. You click a pattern with your tongue and Nebula hops onto your shoulder, settling in as only a cat can.

“Nebbie, you’ll never believe what I did earlier,” you cackle, your voice bubbling like champagne. Nebula continues to purr, starry eyes staring at nothing. “I shot a B-movie one-liner at a skeleton tonight. Gravel voice, flared coat, the whole ‘bad vampire movie’ works.” Your manic snickering returns with fervor. “Oh, god, his _face!_ Ho, my god, priceless!” Nebula meows a warning when your shoulders jostle her too much. You calm yourself and rub her head in apology. “I know, I know, that’s not my usual shtick, but whatever. It’s not like I’m going to see them again anyway.”

Humming a catchy tune to yourself, you decide that spaghetti sounds amazing for dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism welcome  
> If this gets enough attention, I could be compelled to turn it into a big ole story


End file.
